


Souls for Sale

by Sixpence



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixpence/pseuds/Sixpence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles of varying lengths, written for various prompts and moments of inspiration. Friendships, broships, relationships. Rampant feels, shipping galore and general Thedas-related goodness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Toast in a Tavern (General, all DA2 companions)

**Author's Note:**

> I've gathered quite a collection of drabbles that are too short to upload individually, so I'm going to start gathering them here instead! Some shipping (mostly Fenris/fem!Hawke, but likely others in the future), a lot of friendship-induced feelings, and a general smorgasbord of themes and general tales.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

It isn’t often that Fenris offers a toast, but there’s a fond warmth in his voice as he lifts his cup. “To old friends, be they with us or not,” he suggests.

Varric chuckles. “You’re not getting all sentimental on us now are you, Broody?”

"Soft or not, I’ll drink to that," Sebastian says warmly.

"As will I," Aveline agrees, raising her cup to both those at the table, and to Wesley’s memory.

Anders simply grunts, and his gaze is distant. He lifts his own glass slightly, remembering companions long-gone. Bethany, her own thoughts with a brother who should have been sat there with them, lays an understanding hand on his arm.

Merril’s frown is so adorable that, for a moment, even Fenris finds it hard to begrudge her. “But we’re all here, aren’t we, Fenris? You haven’t gone making new friends without us, have you?”

"Sure; he’s probably part of a crochet club," Isabela tells her, and gives a burst of silvery laughter. "You’re awfully soft tonight, Fenris – I think I might cry!"

Fenris’s cheeks colour beneath his tanned skin, and Hawke comes to his rescue. “I think that’s a fine toast,” she murmurs, and her hand touches Fenris’s lightly.

They all raise their cups, and a companionable silence falls between them. Fenris lifts his own, and takes a swallow of bitter alcohol.

When he lowers it again, their chairs are empty.

The table is empty, and he is the only one to toast the empty room.

The silence steals the memory of their voices from his head, and it’s with a sudden heat behind his eyes that he lowers his gaze, and stares down at the dusty table.

The destruction of Kirkwall took many things from many people, but from Fenris most of all.

Hawke, chased from the city that had called her Champion, Bethany with her. Isabela to the sea, Merrill and Varric to Maker-knew-where. Sebastian to Starkhaven; his friendship withdrawn, ready to wage war on a city already broken. Anders to live in self-imposed exile, and Fenris thinks, with a bitter thought, that he would have even been glad to see him that night.

"Be they with us or not," he whispers, and the words are empty on his tongue.


	2. So Very Tired of Running (Fenris/fem!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris/fem!Hawke. After Kirkwall, Fenris and Hawke have gone their separate ways. More than anything, it is the silence of a road travelled alone that troubles Fenris's heart; a short retrospective on the time passed and hopeful thoughts for the future.

Written as a companion piece to [_Heel_](http://twin-talons.tumblr.com/post/61450262623/heel), a short drabble by Runebug

\----

I’ve stopped talking, lately.

I’ve never been the most eloquent of men, but even I’ve noticed the silence. I do not travel with a companion with whom to lift my voice, but even with the traders in the markets and the barkeeps in the taverns I just can’t care enough to find the words.

Everything’s changed, and I can’t pretend that I like it. We look like the same men - move like the same men, walk like the same men. But we are not the same and somehow there is a hole inside us that only we can feel. It is wide, and bottomless, and even my empty words cannot fill it.

Like a single stone rolling down a hill, gathering more behind it as it falls: the less I speak, the greater the silence grows, until it’s been so long since I’ve made a noise that my voice, low and hoarse, sounds unfamiliar to me. It is as much a stranger to me as the face that stares back from the surface of my cup. I do not recognise the shadows under that man’s eyes, nor the fresh scars on his face or the dull, lightless shine to his eyes.

_I am so very tired of running._

The nights are wet, and more often than not these days, the men who hunt me are too close on my heels to allow myself the danger of taking a room in a tavern. A small part of it is a blessing - I will not have to trade empty words with a man whose job is to listen. I have nothing worth listening to anymore.

I was always better at being the listener. I listened to Varric’s stories, even though I would never have admitted to enjoying them (I did). I listened to Isabela’s bawdy jokes, to Sebastian’s gentle, healing words. I listened to Aveline’s embarrassed confessions of love for a man two ranks her inferior and then on the same night I listened to your heart, beating soft and fragile beneath your ribcage. It was the only thing soft about you - you, who were all freckles and scars and twisting, teasing lips - and I wanted to wrap my arms around it, wanted to hold it forever against my own.

But like a fool, I ran from it. I ran from it, too, in the same way that I had run from Danarius and run from the hunters who dogged my steps.

I have never made such an astounding act of stupidity as I did that night.

That single, falling stone has turned into an avalanche and the silence is so heavy that my shoulders stoop beneath it. There is only one thing I can think of that will break it, that might fill that bottomless chasm in my chest until it no longer hurts and it does not matter that I haven’t slept under a dry roof for a fortnight.

The only thing that can save me now is the sound of that self-same heart, soft and warm beneath my ear as I rest my cheek on your breast. If I can wrap my arms around you, the avalanche will cease and I will no longer stumble under its weight.

I close my eyes, and sigh a noiseless breath down through my nose. The first words I have uttered in weeks fell not from my lips but from my pen onto paper. By the work of my own hand, I ache to think that you might have received the letter that I have penned to you; I ache to think that soon you might be nearby.

The rain is relentless, but if the Maker is kind then soon you will be here to share it with me.

It’s time to stop running. I’m ready to be caught.


	3. Forehead Kisses (Platonic Fenhawke, Fenbela)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of forehead kisses written for a Tumblr prompt. Platonic Fenris/f!Hawke, some semi-NSFW Fenbela.

**\----  
**

**Forgiveness** : Fenris/f!Hawke

The gesture is sudden, and as with everything it makes him tense, makes him jerk away from the unwanted contact - but his back is already against the wall and there’s nowhere else to go, nothing else to do but surrender to that chaste press of lips and the soft warmth of breath in his hair.

It is not a profession of love - neither of them are fool enough to allow themselves such a thing - but one of forgiveness, one of understanding, and the age-old ache in his lyrium-scarred skin is nothing compared to the pain that suddenly twists the forgotten heart in his chest.

_Forgiveness._

He closes his eyes into the kiss, and chokes on a soft noise in the back of his throat. _Fool Hawke_. He did not ask for it, but… he will gladly take it, too.

 

\----

**Comfort** : Fenris/f!Hawke

His face is already pressed into Hawke’s shoulder, his breathing ragged and his forehead running fever-hot. He gasps like a horse pushed to its limit - can feel his skin trembling and prickling with goosebumps as the lyrium runs icy cold in his veins.

He is aware - distantly - that soft hands have taken his face, and then Hawke is pressing sun-chapped lips to his fevered brow, her voice a gentle murmur against his skin.

He cannot hear the words, but… somehow, they soothe him. The vice-like clamp of sickness about his chest eases - just the slightest amount - but it is enough for him to catch his breath, enough for him to shudder and wrap his arms weakly about her waist, and when he rests his face against her once more he finds the peace to sleep.

 

\----

**Holy Sins** : Fenbela, semi-NSFW

 

"Welcome… to my church!"

Isabela throws her arms out wide, spinning, and with an unsteady laugh collapses onto her bed.

Her captain’s quarters are a whirl of colour and intrigue and finery - Fenris knows that in the morning he will want to study it all, when the room isn’t spinning and its contents are more than colourful blurs, but for now he gives a blurted laugh and tries not to fall on top of Isabela as he stumbles after her. “Am I a sinner?” he asks, and for all that he always strives to be eloquent in his speech, he slurs a little then.

Isabela sits up, her gaze devouring him. “Oh, definitely,” she decides, even as nimble fingers curl in the front of his shirt and pull him down with her.

"I will sin tonight," Fenris assesses steadily, some wicked darkness in his eyes as he supports himself above her.

Thwarted a little by wine-drunk fingers, Isabela’s bodice comes apart. “Yes,” she breathes, as his hands make short work of her clothing.

Fenris quirks a smile that is half written by wine and lopsided with amusement. “Then perhaps best not to sin inside a church.”

"I am priest and Goddess all in one - the Queen of this holy ground," Isabela declares, laughing as she throws her arms wide, dark skin spilling naked across the sheets. She lifts gorgeous golden eyes to his, and for a moment he is made breathless. "If you must sin, Messere, do it here. With me. _Right now_.”

Fenris hesitates - though it is for dramatic effect only because they both know he is already half hard and aching for her - but if she is the Goddess (tonight, _his_ Goddess) then he will not incur her wrath by accident, not if he can help it.

Isabela, seeing the thoughts turning slowly through his mind

( _Men_ , she thinks to herself, in amusement, _they need twice as long to do anything_ )

rolls her eyes and laughs a silvery laugh that ends with fingers tangled in his hair and her full lips pressed to his forehead. They leave a smear of rouge in their wake and she arches beneath him as she catches his lips next, purring at his hands on her body and his teeth on her tongue.

"You’re absolved of all responsibility," she promises him, as his hands bear her down into the mattress and together they tumble into the sheets, bodies burning with fire for each other.


	4. Better Me than You (Fenris/fem!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes we are not always given time to make rational decisions. When push comes to shove, sacrifices are made, and blood and tears are shed in equal amounts. One shot, no pairing (suggested Fenris/f!Hawke), character death.

In battle, things always happen too fast.

Blades move fast. Orders are shouted quickly, blood is shed and hits the ground like heavy drops of rainwater.

Battles are messy affairs; a cacophony of shouts and curses and insults and commands, a tangle of feet and dust and blades and magic. Decisions are made - sometimes correctly, sometimes not - but the rush of adrenaline doesn’t allow time for thinking, doesn’t allow spare moments to turn rational thought into practical action.

Some decisions don’t need time to be made. They are simply natural - they grab at your feet before you have time to judge the situation and even before the reality of it hits you think, _Yes, this was the right thing to do_.

For Fenris, the decision is made somewhere in between shucking his blade from a man’s falling body and the sound of a shout from somewhere over his left shoulder. He doesn’t need to look to know that it comes from Hawke; even through the slur of insults that thicken the air and Varric’s shouts to Isabela to ‘Watch your feet, Rivaini!’ he can hear the Champion grunt as her back hits the ground, can hear the gloating tone in the mercenary’s voice as he loads his crossbow from across the cavern and cranks back another bolt.

The decision is made even before he heaves his gauntlet free of a man’s skull, and before her name - a strangled, panicked “ _Hawke!_ ” - can even fall fully from his lips he is simply _there_ , where a moment before he wasn’t, his body shielding hers from harm even as the _twang_ of whipcord against the tiller cuts the air and something impossibly hard, impossibly sharp drives him, stumbling, into her.

For a moment, shock makes his limbs leaden and his body numb. The impatient rush of time suddenly grinds to an agonising halt; he lifts his eyes to hers, and beneath the dirt on her face her skin is deathly white.

Then his heart lurches, and somewhere between the sudden stab of panic and a thudding sense of mortality he realises that the crossbow bolt is buried in his back, so deep that it’s broken its way through ribs and lungs and the point of it sticks out from the front of his chest like a great, ugly black tooth.

Agony crashes down on him, and as his heartbeat thunders in his ears he fights to draw breath through a hole in his lung the size of his fist.

It’s a horrible sound; a great, sucking gasp that sounds like air drawn from the bottom depths of a muddy lake. Blood flows from his chest, flows from his lungs; coats his tongue and spits from his lips with every futile breath that he tries to grasp. There’s blood on his face and blood on his hands, and he should have been familiar with the sight of it but  _this is his_  and somehow that makes it worse.

Seconds pass - horrible, heavy seconds filled only with wet, heaving breaths that might have lasted minutes, years, _millennia_ for all that time suddenly crawls - and then the world crashes down about them. He is aware - _vaguely_ \- that the body of the man with the crossbow has hit the ground, Isabela’s knives buried in his throat. He is aware of Hawke’s hands on his shoulders - her frantic voice and the rasp of stones on too-sensitive skin as he is laid down on the ground.

She’s saying something - shouting something, because even if his hearing is somehow deadened he _knows_ that way that her lips twist downwards, _knows_ that bittersweet curve to her eyebrows better than he knows the features on his own face - and something hotter than his own blood hits his cheeks and for the briefest moment he swears he can taste the sea.

It’s a disturbing sensation; being able to feel his life leaking out from that too-large hole in his chest, feeling each hoarsely-gasped breath rush from his lungs before his body can make use of it. But he knows that he owes her something, some words, before his heart bursts from the effort of fluttering in his broken ribcage, and his lips struggle to form the shapes of the sounds.

"It is… better me than you," he whispers eventually; at least, he hopes that some noise escapes his lips because there’s nothing but deafening silence in his ears now. He is choking on the blood that bubbles up in the back of his throat; he’s vaguely aware of the bitter taste of elfroot as someone pushes the cold glass of a vial past his lips.

But it is too late - _it has always been too late -_ and then his sight follows his hearing into the echoless depths of that cavern, and even the convulsing of his chest eventually stills.

In battle, things always happen too fast. It’s only in the slowing moments afterwards, when minds and breath sharpened with adrenaline begin to catch up, that the tears squeeze free and realisation cleaves in two the hearts that blades could not touch.


	5. Children's Tales (Fenbela)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secret of Fenris's inability to read gets out, and Isabela is one of the first to offer to teach the elf. Hessarian's Spear makes an appearance, Isabela can't keep it in her pants, schmoopsy feels are had by all. Fenris/Isabela, written for a Tumblr prompt.

When they’d first learned of his predicament (with some amusement, Fenris suspected, on Varric and Isabela’s behalfs), Varric had suggested starting him off reading children’s tales. But Fenris was not - as he’d reminded them  _quite_ pointedly (while at the same time wondering just how drunk Isabela must have gotten Hawke to wheedle the gossip of his illiteracy from the Champion) stupid, nor was he too young to make sense of close-written script or long words - he simply did not know how to link each letter with its associated sound, was not aware of spellings or how to hold a pen.

When he had demonstrated (with painstaking embarrassment) that he  _could_ indeed handle books written for adults, it had taken all of three seconds, one spilled drink and a transferal of Isabela’s hips from Varric’s lap to Fenris’s for her to offer to teach him to read from her… _personal_ collection.

“Those kind of books are more fun read together, tiger,” she’d whispered in one ear, tugging outrageously on red-rouged lips with her teeth, and Fenris had simply snorted and batted her hand away from his chest.

And yet, despite his objections, he’s still somehow ended up in her room at the Hanged Man - his armor shucked over the back of a chair and a book of questionable content resting in his lap as she lounges on the bed behind him.

“‘Hessarian!’ Andraste gasped, writhing on the sheets. ‘Oh, your spear is so big-'… Isabela, it might just be me, but would this not be considered a blasphemous text?”

"Perhaps," she says, her smile broadening as she curls up next to him. "Worried the Maker will smite you the next time you enter the Chantry?"

"If this book has any basis in truth - which I very much doubt, by the way - I do not think that ‘smiting’ is an unpleasant sensation," he answers, and when she leans over to tap the next line pointedly, he sighs and takes the hint to continue reading. If he has achieved nothing else that day, he considers it a pride-worthy feat that he can still somehow keep his voice steady, even during the parts that Isabela has memorised and seems to enjoy reading along with him, voices included.

He has to commend her for her acting skills, if nothing else.

"…’Her legs were splayed across the sheets; her hair tumbled across the bed like molten gold. Hessarian’s fingers ran her through with every thrust; moaning as he kissed her-… her…’ Uh…"

Hearing him falter on the line, Isabela leans over to find it. “You don’t know that word?” she asks, when she finds it and though she isn’t laughing _(yet)_ her eyes are shining with barely-contained mirth.

"Of course I  _know_ that word,” he says, his voice carefully flat. “I just do not understand why it’s  _spelled_ like that.”

"Like I know," she answers, and  _there’s_ that first betraying blurt of laughter. “Maybe I’ll find the first man who ever explored a woman’s vagina and ask him if he knew how to spell.”

"Of all the teachers in Kirkwall, I had to find you," Fenris teases, with false despair. That familiar frown line furrows itself between his brows as she shifts beside him, her soft breasts pressing against his back and her arms slipping about his waist, distracting him. "Isabela,  _please_ …”

"What?" she says, resting her chin on his shoulder so that she can still read over it. "Keep going."

Fenris lets out a bracing sigh, as though he’d rather drown himself in the docks than face the prospect of a night reading questionable literature to this infuriating,  _distracting_  woman. “…’and she gasped beneath his hands, begging him for more’. Will you  _stop_ that?”

Isabela gives a blurt of laughter and removes her lips from his neck. “You’re no fun…”

"And you are… a distraction," he says carefully, suppressing the shudder that threatens to run up his spine when her teeth find the sensitive shell of his ear.

Apparently agreeing with him does not mean that she will stop, for she makes a soft noise of concession yet still grazes her lips across the soft spot behind his ear. “ _Read,_ lover,” she whispers.

It is an effort to hide his smile as he turns his gaze back to the book, and with steady dedication begins to speak once more. He is too focused on making sense of the words to pay much heed to the way that her kisses eventually trail off; is too intent on reading that he does not realise that somewhere between Hessarian running Andraste through with his spear and their holy afterglow that she has shifted so that her cheek is resting against his shoulder and his arm has slipped about her waist to keep her steady.

It is only when she shifts slightly - when she sighs a gentle, womanly noise against his skin and curls in closer to him that he realises that her breathing has deepened and her eyes have fallen closed.

Careful not to disturb her, he makes a soft noise of amusement in the back of his throat and closes the book - making sure to mark his place in the pages first. Then, with surprising gentleness for a man so hardened by blade and armor and the passage of time, he draws her into his arms, and tucks her carefully beneath his chin. Her arms reaffirm themselves about his torso, and even in her sleep one of her hands finds its way down to his backside.

_Some things never change_ , Fenris thinks to himself, and presses his nose to her hair, huffing a warm breath of amusement into it.

He is not sure how much his reading has improved that night, but… it is better than children’s tales, and he suspects he will return to find out how the story ends.


End file.
